Shep
by TheAwesomenessThatIsDumbledore
Summary: Peter Pan in a modern setting; the Lost Boys are a troop of homeless kids led by Shep. They're trying to stay away from the orphanage led by Mr. Hooke and Mr. Smee. When he meets Wendalynn Dear, everything turns upside down; will she turn them in,or help?
1. Chapter 1

It is a dark, damp alleyway, as cliche as that sounds. People pass by either end of it, purposefully making their way to their destination, talking on their cell phones, sifting through their purse, or just rushing to catch a taxi. It is just as one would picture New York.

Suddenly, a young boy appears from the shadows. His face, hair and clothes are streaked with dirt. His cheeks are sunken, but his intelligent bright blue eyes peer from under his sandy-blonde hair calculatingly, analyzing every detail of the narrow alley between two of what he calls 'high danger zones'. Only moments later, he seems to perk up, muscles clenching, adrenalin pouring through his veins. An official-sounding and decidedly feminine voice filters through the din of the city. This seems to be some sort of cue; the boy darts away, weaving expertly through the hordes of people as though he's done it his whole life, because, of course, he has. All the people rushing by are a blur to him, but one girl; she stands on a corner in the usual preppy rich-kid clothes, wavy red hair pulled back into a neat bun, framing her pale face. He knows this girl; he just doesn't remember how. Meanwhile, he blends perfectly with the people. He blends so well that, somehow, no one takes any real notice of the boy with wild eyes racing through the streets of New York. Only one girl notices him; her murky green eyes pick up every detail of him, from his worn sneakers with the soles slapping loosely against the pavement to the way his hair sticks up at odd angles. He has the hollow look of someone who has been hungry for most of his life, but he runs with surprising purpose, like he is running to instead of from. Yes, the wavy red haired girl picks up every detail and stores it away for further analyzation. And neither have any idea how much the other notices. Or how much it matters that they noticed.

Shep crossed Old Fulton Street, leaving a trail of honking horns behind him. While it wasn't the heart of the city, the temporary home they had set up under the Brooklyn Queens Expy overpass got a lot of traffic. They were moving in two days; Nibs had discovered a NYPD setup only a few block from here. That generally meant trouble.

And here was Nibs now, eyes wide with telltale excitement that meant he had news.

"Shep!" he called, racing toward him from where the rest of their ragtag family was crouching by a small fire. "We found a new place! It's perfect! You have to see it! It's perfect, with-"

Slightly had come up and clapped his hand over Nibs' mouth. Slightly was the second oldest, and rather conceited; he believed himself to be the better of the others because he had spent longer with his parents, and had a little musical flair. Whenever the possibility was there, Slightly could find a way to make some music.

"I went looking this morning," he told Shep in the official voice that said he meant business, "because you said to, before you left; and I left the Twins in charge, like you said to; and I went up to the busier parts of New York, like you suggested."

Slightly, you see, was quite determined to become the leader of their little gang. He figured that the best way to do this would be to follow Shep's instructions carefully, so that he would give a good impression. Unfortunately, this gave off more of an 'unable to think for himself' vibe than the desired 'good at following orders'.

"And I was up by West Broadway, right? And right near a pretty good-looking restaurant, there's this alley. So I go look, and what do I see? It's got a couple fluorescent lights on the walls, and a big dumpster with the restaurant's trash, and near the entrance there's a Goodwill clothes drop-off box, just waiting to be broken into. It's pretty clean for a NY alley, I guess because it's in such a high-class area, but there's no cops anywhere. Except for near the theaters and stuff, of course, but they'll have their hands full there. So... is it good? Will it work? I took the rest of them up to see it after lunch, and they really liked it."

Shep sighed. They had been trying to stick to the same general area for a while, give the littler kids a chance to get used to the streets. But this place threw that right out the window, plus the 'lie low' plan, while they're at it. So many snooty rich people, so many policemen; a cop would just flat-out throw them in the cop car, a rich old lady would try and do a good deed for the poor little souls lost in the big, bad city. Both ended up at Angels of Mercy, the orphanage. NOT a place where they wanted to be.

"I don't-" Shep started, but was cut off by Tink.

"I liked it, too, Shep. I really, really want to stay there. Can we? Please?"

Shep took a deep breath and looked away. He hated playing the bad guy, but sometimes it was necessary, and usually they got it and moved on. However, this time they seemed very determined. And- well, he wouldn't sugar-coat it. He had a soft spot a mile wide for Tink. Who wouldn't, with her long, wavy blonde hair and angelic blue eyes? Nobody, that's who. Everything about her just screamed innocence.

"I-well, I- I just don't-oh, what the hey, let's do it." Shep said tiredly, setting his swollen pack on the floor. His remark was meant with cheers; they really were happy. Maybe it was worth it.

Wendalynn smiled cheerily, shaking hands with the agency hotshot her father was associated with. While they were stuffy, she rather enjoyed these corporate gatherings; putting on pretty dresses and interacting with all these important people. Her mother looked radiant beside her, wearing a new dress by some expensive designer with an exotic name. There were so many, they all kind of blurred together in her mind.

"And who is this lovely young lady?" One man in a handsome pantsuit said, gesturing to Wendalynn. She blushed modestly, and stuck out her hand. "I'm Wendalynn Dear, Charles' daughter. And who might you be?"

The man smiled at her, pumping her hand up and down. "Well, Miss Wendalynn, I'm Aaron Spenders of Tix 'n' Tox Watches. It's been nice meeting you." And with that, he wandered of toward the hors d'oeuvres.

Introductions like this were very common. Whether they were the CEO of some megacompany or a little undersecretary, everyone had something to say to the young, but nonetheless elegant Wendalynn Dear. Beside her, Michael and John where socializing in a similar fashion, flashing prize-winning smiles and chuckling at jokes that weren't the least bit funny. Wendalynn was proud of them.

Now, here was a new one. Wendalynn looked at the fat, outlandishly dressed man. Plum and gold tux with a red bow tie; ugh. Why had Father invited this man? He obviously had no taste.

"Now, who might the delicate little lady in front of me be?" he asked, smiling cheekily. She smiled politely back.

"I'm Wendalynn Dear, Charles' daughter. And you are...?"

"Oh, it's nice meeting you, Wendalynn. Interesting name, that. I'm Jared Hooke, founder of the Angels of Mercy orphanage and treasurer of some of the major charities of New York. Your father and I were involved in New Yorkers for the Homeless and Hungry together last year."

Oh, there we go, Wendalynn thought. Father did always like to play generous millionaire every once in a while, and this man looked like the kind of eccentric who would dedicate himself to charity.

Behind him was a plump little man in an odd but somewhat classy blue-and-white striped pantsuit. He had big, round spectacles and was following Mr. Hooke like a lost little duckling. Wendalynn looked questioningly at him.

"Oh, that's Howard Smee, my secretary. Howard, Wendalynn. Wendalynn, Howard." He said, gesturing from Mr. Smee to her.

"Now, Wendalynn, is this were you live, or is it rented out?" Mr. Hooke said conversationally. Wendalynn frowned a little. It was an altogether innocent question, but there was something... off about it.

"Oh, this is our home, yes. Unusual to find such roomy apartments so near Broadway, I know, but my father of all people would be able to find a way." She said politely, trying to indicate that she wanted to end the conversation. Mr. Hooke was not getting the message, however.

"Oh, yes, of course! Charles was always a stubborn one, wouldn't expect that to change. Are these charming young men your brothers?"

John and Michael were standing awkwardly behind them, looking like they wanted to talk to Wendalynn.

"We are, sir. Can we borrow Wendalynn for a moment, please?" They said breezily.

"Of course, boys! Nice meeting you, Miss Dear."

Wendalynn followed the boys out into the balcony. She didn't like that man. He seemed nice enough, but something was wrong. She didn't know what, but something definitely was.


	2. Chapter 2

Shep looked around the corner of the theatre, all senses on alert. They had just set up this new outpost, closer to Broadway, and Shep was the only one here. The rest of his band of merry orphans was back in the West Broadway alley, scrounging around for food in the restaurant dumpster. They thought Shep was off begging on street corners.

They were wrong.

Secretly, Shep was not actually begging; too public, too likely to get caught and sent to the police department, then to Angels of Mercy. He had ruled that out long ago. He just didn't tell the rest of the kids. Yes, he most certainly was not planning on begging. Maybe, deep down, it was because of his pride, but getting caught was reason enough. So, when they thought he was in soup kitchens and the like, he was actually sneaking into houses and restaurants, taking what he could and praying not to get caught.

They were petty crimes; the Take a Penny dish here, a slightly less worn winter coat there. None of the other kids knew. Shep didn't know how they would react. Didn't want to know.

He finally stepped out from behind the theatre. Silent as the night itself, he stealthily darted from cover to cover, avoiding the sparse streetlights. He gave the last of the people out this late a wide berth, avoiding any contact that would be a dead giveaway he was here.

Shep had scoped the area out a few days ago; finding little other than theaters and restaurants, he had almost left. Until, that is, he discovered the spacious apartment in a sleek building. If you could afford a sizable apartment on Broadway, Shep figured, you must be pretty rich.

And so he now slipped on the UPS delivery hat, wiped the last of the dirt off his face. He took the sizable box into his arms that contained mostly packing peanuts, but also a small lamp he had snitched from an old woman on 57th Street last week. Since he looked quite a bit older than the 13 that he was, this was the 'disguise' Shep used most often. He would feign a delivery using odds and ends he'd found, then send the recipient on a long quest for some unusual object so that he had time to nab what he could from the foyer. Usually not much, but he would take what he could get.

So Shep set off purposefully toward the streamlined building he had found, head held high, hoping that they were home. He stepped through the gleaming double doors engraved with Latin sayings along the doorframe he couldn't hope to make sense of. The lobby was just as modern as the rest of the building, all white marble and gold molding. A pimply teen was at the shiny black front desk, looking bored.

"Excuse me," Shep called out to him, trying to gauge his voice to make it sound convincing. "but I need to get to apartment 2B for a delivery. What floor is that on?"

The boy, seemingly not smart enough to be suspicious, hardly looked up from his magazine as he called, "2."

He strode toward the large silver doors of the elevator and tried to hide his smile as he pushed the glowing button. That was _too _easy.

The door of the apartment was a glossy white, with a big knocker and the shiny gold room numbers. Under the knocker, a silver plate pronounced that this was "the home of the Dears; Charles, Margaret, and Wendalynn." Shep fought the urge to snicker at the classic snooty rich-people names as he banged the knocker.

A man with clean-cut salt-and-pepper, an ironed Ralph Polo and perfectly creased and starched trousers opened the door. So stereotypical. Shep cleared his throat.

"I have a delivery for a Mrs. Margaret Dear. Is she here?"

The man smiled a practiced, white-toothed smile. "As a matter of fact, she is, but a little busy at the moment. Can I sign for it?"

"No," Shep said, shaking his head regretfully. "It specified that she needed to sign. Do I need to come back later?"

The man paused, thinking. "I don't think so," he said finally. "I'll go get her. She's in Wendalynn's room. Wait in here." With that, he turned a corner and he heard the sound of heavy footsteps going up stairs.

Shep had to hurry; he didn't know how much time he had. He quickly looked through the few items on the nearest small table. Keys, photos, some sticky notes... aha!

Shep quickly grabbed $20 from the thick leather wallet. With that much cash, 'Charles' wouldn't miss it. He grabbed some coins from the change jar by the door, stuffing them into his jacket pocket. He nabbed a small pair of earrings from a shelf. He found $5 in the pocket of an elegant coat, and then heard the click-clack of footsteps on wood. Shep hastily put everything back in order and assumed the expectant stance of a waiting delivery boy.

"Hello," said 'Margaret', stepping into the foyer. He caught his breath; she was movie star beautiful, ivory skin and flowing auburn hair. Her green eyes found him.

"Charles said I was to sign for something...?" she said, flashing another practiced, perfect smile. White teeth gleamed.

"Yes," Shep said, holding out his clipboard. "Right here, please."

She took his pen and signed Margaret E. Dear with a flourish, taking up a quarter of the page. Her bracelets jingled and her rings clanked together as she wrote.

Shep smiled at her. "Good night," he said, trying not to sound smug. He turned and left the warm foyer for the chilly but nonetheless elegant hallway.

Shep stuck his hands into his pockets, his fingers searching for the familiar square of paper. He frowned, tried again. He turned his pockets inside out, now totally panicked.

It wasn't there.


	3. Chapter 3

Wendalynn was jolted awake by a strange rustling noise downstairs. She slowly rose from the warm thickness of sleep, rubbing her eyes.

"Wusthat?" she said tiredly, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, and finally landing on a small, hunched shadow she was pretty sure wasn't part of her settee.

Unable to decide whether it was just a pile of laundry or something more climactic, she flicked on her frilly bedside lamp.

A boy was there, crouching, his eyes squeezed shut, perfectly still. A scream froze in Wendalynn's throat.

The boy seemed to realize she could see him, and sprang up, by her bedside with his hand clamped over her mouth in a flash.

"Shh," he said quietly. "Don't yell. Please."

Her eyes grew wide and terrified. She and Father had talked about what to do in this situation. You... er... oh yeah!

"OW!" The boy whisper-yelled, swinging his and around and rubbing where Wendalynn had bit it. She wasted no time; opening her mouth, she-

Was smothered again, this time by a pillow.

"Hear me out," the boy said. Wendalynn's eyes narrowed. He would feed her some sappy story so that she would feel bad for him and let him go, maybe even let him rob the house. Not Wendalynn, though. She was smarter than that. Nothing he could say would convince her.

"I left something here. And I need it. Now. Please. Just let me find it." He said quickly. She was mildly surprised. Where was the tearjerker? The long pity party?

However, she knew that what he was looking for was obviously her mother's diamonds. Or her father's money. Or even Wendalynn herself.

"Tell me what it is." The words were out of her mouth before she knew what she was saying. She wanted to slap herself. She fell for it! She really, actually fell for, the dunce she is!

The boy paused, thinking hard. "I can't tell you. But, I'll show it to you once I find it. That is, if you don't press charges."

Despite herself, Wendalynn was tempted. Something else about him was nagging the back of her mind though.

"You have to take me with you." She said plainly. "And my brothers, too, please. Wherever you're going."

The boy seemed startled. "W-what? Take you to... no. I couldn't." he said, the shock showing in his voice.

"Well then..." she said, reaching for the button that called for her father by her bed.

"Wait!" he said hurriedly, just as she had thought he would. "Why? Why would to leave such a perfect, cushy life?"

Wendalynn thought. "Much too dull," she said finally. "My life needs some desperate spicing up."

The boy seemed angry. "WHAT?" he whisper-yelled. "WHy leave it? It's wonderful! It's- oh, never mind. Sure. Just let me go." He said, giving up. Wendalynn nodded.

"Go on ahead," she whispered back. "i'll get John and Michael."

Seeming to be having some serious 'this-is-a-bad-idea' thoughts, the boy went downstairs, almost silently. You could only hear the faintest whisper of cloth-on-cloth.

Wenalynn left the room, almost as quietly.

~~

"No. I changed my mind." he said stubbornly.

"You promised." Wendalynn contradicted, just as stubborn.

"Yeah, well, I've gone back on that." He replied firmly. She stood her ground.

"You haven't got a choice." She said knowingly. "You have to. You're completely at my mercy. You hate it, but you are."

"I hate logic," he muttered, finally jutting his hand out so she could see the slightly dirty piece of paper below.

It was a photograph, a perfect family scene. A mother, a father, a baby, standing in front of a big brick house, all sunny and happy. It was like a Norman Rockwell painting.

The dad had the boy's shockingly blue eyes, the mom his beach-blonde hair. It was obvious those were his parents.

"Oh," she said. "So that's-"

"Let's go." he said stiffly. They had proceeded down the hall only a few steps when he turned around, frustrated.

"Can you be ANY louder?" He whispered harshly. "You're like a pack of water buffaloes! Your parents will wake up for sure!"

John perked up indignantly. "I am NOT loud!" he said. "For your information, my karate teacher called me perfectly stealthy last-"

"Well, you're not." He interjected.

"How can we be quieter?" Michael inquired quietly. "I'm on my very tippy-toes."

The boy pondered for a moment. "Step lightly, like you're walking on very, very thin ice." he said. "Take deep breaths, as quietly as you can, so that you can hold your breath for a while. But don't pant. Just breath smoothly and evenly, like you're asleep. But, most importantly, you have to really believe that you're quiet. If you're nervous, you'll shake, so you might knock something over. And, you'll breath harder. Pretend like you're invisible."

After adjusting themselves for a few moments, they set off down the hall. It was just as silent as he had been on his trip downstairs; he was a good teacher.

Tiptoeing through the house was quite the adventure; it was eerie to feel this rebellious as they silently made their way through the dark, eerie house. Squares of moonlight shone on them, which they avoided from some unspoken agreement. The hall was eerily quiet; it had always been full of sound. People talking, listening to music, taking showers, etc. Now all they got was the occasional rustle as someone turned over in their sleep or a snore.

The lobby was vacant. This irritated Wendalynn; the had been anticipating having to make some creative excuse, or having some kind of dramatic getaway. Instead, they just went through the door.

When they opened the door to the street, the chill hit them like a brick wall and all sound was back again. Michael curled up to Wendalynn, afraid of all the lights and sounds of the city. She was afraid too. Why hadn't she thought to ask where they were going?

All worried, but still they made their silent way to some unknown destination.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey, it's me, your handy-dandy FanFic writer! I just realized that I haven't done any disclaimers yet, so to make this one more interesting, I'm doing it in Pig Latin.**

**Abby-gay Oes-day Ot-nay Own-ay Eter-pay An-pay, ut-bay e-shay ishes-way at-thay e-shay id-day!**

"_This _is where we're staying?" Wendalynn said disbelievingly. The boy nodded.

"I really don't know what you expected," John added unhelpfully. "He _did _try to rob our house."

That was not what Wendalynn needed to hear right now. She had expected something adventurous, but an _alley_? That was too far. She was starting to consider going back home, to a nice, warm bed and French toast in the morning as opposed to the hard, cold concrete floor with a threadbare blanket and nothing but hunger until lunchtime.

"I like this. It's like an adventure, _The Swiss Family Robinson _or something." Michael said cheerily, eyeing the small makeshift camp with excitement.

Wendalynn had hated that book. Too nitty and gritty. Now, she was living. Why, oh why did she come up with this?

"Wait a second," she said, turning to the boy. "What's your name, anyway?"

He clenched his teeth. He was obviously not happy with this arrangement. Quite frankly, she wasn't either, but she wasn't about to let _him _know that.

"Shep." He said finally, sitting down next to the fire where six other kids sat sleeping. Who were they, anyway?

"Shep?" she scoffed. "You sound like a gang leader."

"Technically, I am a gang leader," he pointed out.

"Not a violent one." She paused, thinking. "You know what? I"m going to call you Peter. You look like a Peter."

Peter glared.

"What's your name, Miss I'm-too-perfect-to-call-people-by-their-names?" he said finally, poking the wood of the fire with a rusty curtain rod he had found abandoned in the corner of the alley.

She stood up a little taller. "Wendalynn Dear," she recited confidently.

Now it was Peter's turn to scoff.

"You sound like the rich snob that you are," he commented. "If you're calling me Peter, then I'm calling you Wendy."

She was flabbergasted. How dare he, to just treat her like, like-

"I let you go! You owe me!" she said indignantly.

"I let you come! You owe me!" he mimicked irritably.

Suddenly, Michael spoke up. "I'm Michael," he said confidently, sicking out his hand for Peter to shake. Peter smiled cautiously.

"Well, hello, Michael." he said, sounding surprised that he had spoken.

"But you can call me Mike," Michael added. Peter shook his head.

"No, I like Michael better. Who's your brother?"

"I'm John," John said stiffly.

"You're as uptight as your sister," Peter commented. "Is there something wrong with my humble abode?"

Apparently, now Peter as feeling cocky. Wendalynn was flustered, angry and tired. She did not need this right now.

"Just tell me where to sleep," she said. Peter cocked his head to the side, gesturing to the corner furthest from the fire.

"But that'll be cold," John protested.

"No other place to go," Peter responded off-handedly, already crawling under his own blanket.

Wendalynn sighed, then retreated toward the corner Peter had gestured to, John and Michael close behind.

"i hate this," she muttered under her breath, crabby.

"Yeah, me too." Peter replied good-naturedly from his place near the fire.

Ignoring this last comment, she burrowed into the threadbare blanket, and fell into the warm thickness of sleep.

**Okay, it wasn't one of my best chapters, but it was kind of a filler. Fun in the next chapter, though!**


	5. Chapter 5

Tink glared at the sleeping form next to her. Even now, covered in dirt and sleeping on the ground, the girl looked like a china doll in the F.A.O. Schwarz window; dainty, lacy nightgown, perfect curls splayed across her face and long lashes tickling her rosy cheeks.

Stupid girl. Stupid, _stupid _girl! What gave her the right to just waltz, batting her eyelashes and twirling her hair, right in to the life she'd always known? Why, thought Tink, she deserves to go to that orphanage. And for TInk, that meant a lot; from what she'd heard (she'd never actually been) it was the very embodiment of evil. But this girl, this _Wendalynn _certainly deserved it.

Tink sat cross-legged, staring into the dwindling fire. She knew what would happen, it was like in all the storybooks ever written. Shep (a prince, of course; if anyone was one, it would be him) and Wendalynn (sadly, a princess; she certainly looked the role) would fall madly in love. The Lost Boys, as she liked to call them, would be like the little princes when they got married and became kings and queens. But Tink didn't get a role in the story. A fairy, perhaps? A fairy that was shunted to the side, forgotten by all. It was only logical. Unless...

Unless.

Unless the evil stepmother took the princess away, banishing her from her betrothed. No... there was a severe lack of evil stepmothers these days.

Unless a great evil sorceress stole the princess away in the night, locking her away in a tower. No, the prince always rescues her. Shep would for sure.

Unless the future little princes, believing the princess to be nothing but a mere wrench, sent her off to the Great Unknown, never to be seen again.

That was it.

Tink leaped, quiet as could be. This was, in fact, almost silently. Shep had taught all of them well.

SHe daintily rushed to Slightly's side. Shep had gone away to beg for food, so she was safe.

"Slightly!" she said urgently, nudging him with her foot. His eyes snapped open, and he instinctively grabbed his pack. Fast exits were common for them, so being able to wake and be able to form coherent thoughts as soon as possible was a necessity.

When he noticed her big, solemn eyes, however, he calmed almost imperceptibly.

"What is it?" he said, eyes darting around, searching for some unknown threat.

"There's a tagger," she said, sounding as alarmed as she could. Slightly understood, and went to wake up the others.

'Tagger' was their word for when someone else invaded camp, taking advantage of our food, fire and shelter. It had happened many times before, and the people always tried to plead that they were weak, young, innocent; whatever this girl, and her companions, would say would just seem like a far-fetched protest.

Slightly, after waking up Nibs (the second oldest, and third-in-command), creeped to the corner where the implied 'taggers' were sleeping like rocks. If it had been any of them, they would have woken at the faintest whisper.

Dropping the act, Slightly, pulled back his foot and swiftly kicked the angelic, elegant Miss Wendalynn Dear in the ribs. She jolted awake, and Nibs roughly yanked up the eldest boy, twisting his arm behind his back while he groped for his spectacles. They ignored the young one; it was an unspoken rule that younger children would always go untouched, no matter what.

"Who are you?" Slightly demanded, shaking Wendalynn and dropping his voice an octave to sound intimidating. Her eyes widened.

"Oh, please don't hurt me, Peter, he sent me here, he'll tell you so-" She spoke in the fast, panicky tone of someone that had fallen for the tough-gang act.

Behind her, the eldest boy slammed his glasses onto his nose, looking up at Slightly indignantly.

"Unhand her, you vermin! I ought to alert the authorities, handling a young lady so harshly-"

"And tell them what?" Slightly said coldly. "That we rightfully punished you for invading our camping?"

The boy, wide-eyed and speechless, tried to stammer a good reply.

"No-well, you see-Shep! He; er, he sort of-"

Slightly scowled. "Back to the street with the lot of you," he growled menacingly, "unless you preferred Angels of Mercy?"

Not expecting an answer, he shoved them into the bustle of the city, waiting for them to dissolve in like many of the past taggers had. He stood his ground, however. Tink inwardly admired his nerve.

"Now, see here!" He snapped. "That dirty boy you call Shep or Peter or something, he told us to-"

"I told you to what?"

Shep entered the alley, lazily eyeing the scene. His eyes widened when he saw the manner of how the Dears were being treated.

"Who did this?" he hissed angrily, eyes burning. "Why are you treating them like this, like filthy taggers or something of the sort?"

Slightly blinked, dropping the act.

Nibs stared blankly. "Tink said that they were taggers." He stated simply. Shep turned to Tink, and she winced involuntarily. Shep when he was angry was really scary; she rarely saw him this way.

"Tink?" he said, and he sounded confused for a moment. "But I told you about them, how they were coming and everything last night!"

Tink cowered sheepishly, afraid of what would happen when he figured it out. His eyes flared when he had.

"I know I did. Why did you tell them that? They could have been killed, or mugged, or taken to Angels of Mercy!" His voice dropped. "This isn't like you, Tink. This isn't the Tink I know."

The last phrase had done the most damage. He could yell and scream and wave his arms around, and she wouldn't be too perturbed. But the disappointment was almost too much to stand. She didn't want Shep to be sad.

He stared at her intensely for a few moments, reluctantly breaking off eye contact when she didn't respond.

"Wendy, John, Michael," He said, lazily gesturing at the newcomers, who were huddled together, whispering. "New additions."

They knew not to ask or protest; this was how it had always been, Shep just picking people up off the street and adding them in. All of them had been 'new additions' at some point.

Tink huffed quietly to herself as the rest of them quietly went about their normal Shep wold be talking to her now, getting her dressed, etc., but instead he was talking solemnly to Wendalynn.

Not a good sign at all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Okay, it has been pretty boring, but now stuff is gonna happen, okay? I promise.**

Mr. Jared Hooke, founder of such honorable establishments as Angels of Mercy and participant of New Yorkers for the Homeless and Hungry, was troubled. He paced his office, appearing to be thinking hard. Every moment or so, he would mumble something about 'Shep', or 'money', or once even 'find'. His assistant, Harold Smee, was understandably anxious.

"Is there anything I can help you with, sir?" He asked nervously at one point, wiping his glasses. But the aforementioned Mr. Hooke simply held out one finger in the universal sign for 'one moment', then sat down at his ornate oak desk, sank into the plush chair, and twiddled with a paperweight.

"That Shep!" he called suddenly and quite forcefully, slamming the glass paperweight down so hard it almost cracked. "He's lost me nearly everything!" He groaned then, closing his eyes and retreating further black into the plum velvet cushions. Mr. Smee merely looked at him warily.

"Well, sir, I'm quite sorry, to be sure, but you never actually told me-" he began timidly, on a rare streak of boldness. Mr. Hooke wasn't necessarily someone to fume, and Mr. Smee wasn't necessarily someone to worry, but as circumstances had it, they each did.

"Hmm, I don't suppose I ever did..." he mused moodily, and suddenly sat up in his chair, ramrod straight.

"Years ago, when I was young and foolish.." Mr. Smee hurriedly tried to say that no, he was never foolish, but Mr. Hooke waved him down. "... I happened upon a particularly sorry-looking young man on a street corner. He was begging, surrounded by small children who clung to him like their lifeline, and the sight nearly brought tears to my innocent and unsuspecting eyes." he paused here ruefully, for dramatic effect. Mr. Smee watched his face, wide-eyed with interest. "Overcome with grief, I rushed him and the other three boys to Angels of Mercy. The younger ones were quite cooperative, mingling and learning their lessons. They are still here, now; but this boy, this boy was a wrangler. Never grew up, he did; always refusing his food, ignoring his teachers, and sneaking out of the dormitories. He was, to be sure, the moodiest boy you'd ever meet."

He paused, glaring at the paperweight like it was the boy. Mr. Smee watched him, curious.

"Every day, he'd come up to my office. 'Mr. Hooke', he'd say. 'Let me go. Give my board money to New Yorkers for the Homeless and Hungry. I don't want to be here.' Oh, he started out polite as could be. But as he gathered a small group of a couple of other troublemakers, he grew bolder. 'Now, see here!' He'd say, almost yelling at me. 'None of us want to be here! Let us go! Free us from this prison you call 'merciful'!"

Mr. Hooke, snarled here, glaring at the paperweight with such ferocity it seemed like it would burst into flames at any moment.

"I was kind to him, oh yes. I offered to transfer him to another orphanage, to get him a tutor, anything. A family offered to adopt him, but he didn't show up to the meeting.

"He wasn't at the orphanage. He wasn't at the video arcade or the street corner, some of his favorite haunts. His friends were gone too. Overcome with grief and worry, distraught that something had happened to the poor, troubled boy I'd found begging, I'd gone to my office.

"What did I find when I got there?" He said, voice low and dangerous. His eyes flashed, and he continued. "Those innocent, orphaned children had left me a note. It read, 'We've freed ourselves. Oh, and to save you the trouble, we went ahead and donated $75,000 to N.Y.H.H. Take care.'

"They had. Don't ask me how, but they had. Oh, it was a flurry of thank-you cards and complimentary tote bags. I got a big article in the paper, too. And how could I say, 'Oh, never mind, give me my money back'? I would've looked like the biggest jerk in the history of the world. But the money was gone, the orphanage was suffering, and my gold cuff links had to wait. And now, they've been whining for more of my hard-earned money. Seems that now they've developed a taste for it, as they've been hounding me since that boy made the gracious donation.

"I've been looking for him with a fetish. Played the worried-sick card, nobody suspected a thing when I set out scouts to look for more orphans, with special instructions to find him. The boy; his name was Shep. Odd name, yes? But he got here, no papers, refusing to give us a real name, or an age, or the time of day. I, personally, suspected that the name was related to gang action- but I couldn't quite tell anyone that, could I? Look like a paranoid, suspicious fool.

"By then, I'd been hardened." he continued gravely. "The incident had finally knocked some sense into me, made me realize that just because they have a hard life doesn't mean they're angels. No, they can be despicable and hateful if they wish to do so.

"Anyway, I've just recently discovered that one of the people he left with- a Native American girl named Lily, if my memory is correct- has joined a small clan of other homeless Native Americans residing in the subway system. This is how I see it; if we can get her to the orphanage, Shep will have to play hero and get her, yes? Then we will have him." He concluded, setting the paperweight down and peering at Mr. Smee, looking pleased with himself. Mr. Smee nodded vigorously.

"Oh, yes, sir-a fine plan indeed-perfectly foolproof-" He stuttered, tripping over his words as he so often did his feet. Mr. Hooke, rather smug, nodded smartly.

"Now, Harold-" he said importantly, using Mr. Smee's first name; this surprised him, as he never had before. "-I need you to tell the scouts to find this Lily character. She's about 5'4, dark skin, black hair, brown eyes. A right pretty girl, to be sure."

Mr. Smee, overjoyed to have been given such an important job, rushed out the door mumbling excitedly to himself. As the door swung shut behind him, the respected and well-publicized Jared Hooke turned to the window, muttering darkly as he watched the rain fall through the dark night, the sounds of the city wafting into his room. He stayed silent for a few moments, apparently thinking hard, then turned away.

"Come, Shep... I've a surprise for you..."


End file.
